The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [97]
She showed up to a few of her singing lessons woozy and underprepared. “I’m living underwater,” she admitted to Anna.
Anna did not seem displeased. “All the clichés about love are true, but that’s no reason not to give in,” she commented and suggested having a cup of tea instead of launching into their usual routine. “Even if it doesn’t last—and I make no judgment or prediction in that regard.”
Maria was annoyed by a fatalism she detected and an unstated assumption that the real purpose of the experience—like everything else—was to expand the emotional range of her voice. “Why does everything in my life have to be about singing?”
Anna placed a hand on Maria’s elbow. “My robin, of course I understand, and I suppose, at my age, one cannot help but feel a trace of jealousy, or at least nostalgia, to see the fresh bloom of love—”
“But what does age have to do with it? You could fall in love, too! What about the men you date? Aren’t any of them—”
“Yes, they sometimes serve a need.” Anna laughed but then grew contemplative. “Sometimes I think it would be nice to give in to a new love, but—and please don’t take this as an insult or an expectation that you should ever feel the same—love is transformative; it takes you to new places. But if you’re settled like I am, it’s not anywhere you want to go.”
“What if you don’t have a choice?”
“You train yourself, Maria, and with experience, you know what to expect. Life is not always a brand-new adventure. You meet a man and you recognize something familiar, even desirable, but you don’t give in to it. Love is exhausting—it gives you puffy eyes, which is less charming at my age than at yours. Of course there’s nothing of interest in life that is not also painful to some degree, and I would rather have less interest and less pain, if that makes sense.”
“It doesn’t feel painful to me,” Maria insisted.
“I know it doesn’t.” Anna moved toward the piano and played a few chords to indicate that the discussion was over.
ONE AFTERNOON A week before classes started, Maria and Richie were walking hand in hand down Central Park West when Maria noticed a man—nondescript, middle-aged, white, in a cheap polyester suit—looking askance at them.
“Is there a problem?” she demanded.
He turned around, hackles raised. “You tell me. Is there?”
“Not that I can see.”
“Stupid bitch,” the man muttered before walking away.
“You want to go fuck yourself?” Maria yelled as he stalked off in the opposite direction.
Richie pulled her along. “Maria, why do you let a stupid asshole like that bother you?”
“Because! Why does anyone have to make such a big fucking deal out of the fact that we’re holding hands? I thought this was New York City.”
“He was crazy! Making a scene doesn’t help anything.”
“So what if I was making a scene? Am I supposed to just take this shit lying down?”
“I appreciate where you’re coming from, but you’re not exactly the one with the problem complexion here,” Richie remarked.
Maria stopped walking. “What—do I embarrass you or something?”
“Now you’re being crazy,” Richie answered, exasperated. “Why are we fighting about this?”
“Maybe I should just ‘chill out’?” Maria added sarcastically.
“Maybe you should. I’m just saying that you might have a lot of things to be angry about, but being black isn’t one of them.”
Maria heard this and felt something crack inside her. She staggered to a nearby bench and collapsed. She could not believe that she had been yelling at him, as if anything were his fault. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, but even while she hugged him and begged his forgiveness, and he hugged her back and forgave what was barely a transgression, she felt something cold inside her